CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
The other men were already gone, racing for the kitchen, which made a fine impromptu operating theatre, at least by Flyers' standards.
"You're sure that's not T's blood?" Sara asked.
Streak shook his head, already carrying Manda to the clubhouse. "No. I can feel it dripping."
Sara gasped, then forced her mind to work quickly. "Okay. They'll have T on the kitchen table. Bring her to, uh, Rocker's room. Then, once we see how bad she is, we'll decide what to do."
And if that meant calling 911, she would do it in a hot minute. She wasn't risking anyone's life because she didn't know what to do to help.
Streak laid the little blonde gently on the bed. Without being asked, he reached for the knife he always kept in his back pocket, and then realized he was clad only in a pair of dark, bikini briefs. "Sorry," he muttered. "I'll get my pants—my knife's in there.'
While he was gone, Sara, who had been this frightened only once in her life—when she herself was in deadly peril—lifted Manda's wrist.
To her intense relief she found a pulse, although it seemed much too fast. She reached for her first aid kit, but before she could open it, Streak returned, followed by Webb.
"Move aside, honey," the old biker said. "I got her."
Sara and Streak watched, both of them hardly breathing as he cut quickly but carefully up the sleeve of the pink fleece jacket and laid bare Manda's arm and shoulder.
"Oh, my God!" Sara cried. Blood soaked Manda's short-sleeved tee, and the entire side of the jacket behind her left arm. When Webb cut open the sleeve of the tee, they saw why. An ugly gash marred the pale flesh of the back of Manda's upper arm. Blood was oozing from the wound.
"Okay, we gotta get some pressure on this," Webb said. "She's lost a whack already. Streak, go get me a coupla clean towels outta the bathroom. Sara, you got any hand sanitizer, bring that. Some Betadyne would be good too, but they're probably using that in the kitchen about now. Once we get pressure on, we'll see what else needs done."
Sara had something better than that. She picked up her first aid kit and plunked it on the bedside table. "Whatever you need should be in here," she said. "I shopped from a list off one of those Alaskan survival shows." With the Vanko twins to care for, it had seemed appropriate.
Webb opened the plastic kit and surveyed the contents, his brows going up. "This looks about right." He pulled out the bottle of hand sanitizer.
"Streak," he ordered when the prospect ran back in, now attired in jeans and tee, although still barefoot. "Go see how they're doin' with T. Ask Knife if I should go ahead and handle this."
"Got it." Streak disappeared, and came back shortly, looking pale under his fall of wavy hair. "Uh—Knife says he's kinda busy with somethin' important, so handle her shit by ourselves."
Sara was not impressed with this. "Do they even know we have two victims, not just one?" she demanded.
Streak shook his head and swallowed. "No and didn't seem like the time to let 'em know. Knife was, uh, diggin' a bullet out of T."
"He get it?" Webb asked, already busy taking what he wanted from the first aid kit.
"Yeah. A 22 round."
"Huh. Well, T's lucky. All right, we'll take care of this little gal then. Sara, you can assist."
She swallowed hard and reached for the hand sanitizer. "Right. Whatever you need."
Half an hour later, Sara had assisted Webb in cleaning, prepping and stitching up Manda's wound. They then cleaned the blood off of her as best they could without disturbing the arm too much and got her under the covers.
"What do we do now?" Sara asked, looking down at Manda's face, so pale her light freckles stood out on her skin.
"Now we keep her warm, keep track of her blood pressure and pulse. Soon as we can, get some antibiotics and painkillers into her. And then we wait. She'll have a scar," the old biker added, packing supplies back into Sara's kit. "But can't be helped—I ain't no plastic surgeon."
"She can always have plastic surgery later. Or a tattoo," Sara said, and then shook her head. "I can't believe I said that."
Webb chuckled soundlessly. "Plenty o' brothers deal with scars that way. Few women too."
As he rose, Sara moved in and gave him a hug. "Webb, thank you. When Knife told us we were on our own—I about peed my pants."
He patted her back. "Well, you didn't, an' you didn't pass out at the sight o' blood, which I seen plenty of strong men do. You did good, girl."
She leaned back and grinned up at him. "You did a wonderful job on her. You should've been a plastic surgeon—you could have made big bucks, and owned a whole collection of Harleys if you wanted."
He shook his head, his eyes twinkling. "Never could picture myself in a suit, or Velvet anywhere she can't let loose and toss a bowl o' macaroni salad once in a while."
Sara laughed so hard she had to sit down on the bed. And if there was an edge of hysteria to her laughter, Webb didn't call her on it.
He patted her shoulder again. "I'll go check in on T-Bear, see how he's comin'."
She wiped her eyes, which were wet. "I'll come with you."
He shook his head, pressing down on her shoulder. "Nope. Don't do it, girl. That kinda surgery always looks way worse than it is. You stay and watch this gal. Then, you'll have to be ready to whip everyone into shape taking care of both of 'em, as they recover."
Sara wasn't sure she believed that removing a bullet 'looked worse than it was'. It probably looked serious and bloody because it was serious, and she hoped with all her heart that T would be all right, and Manda too.
"Webb, did we do the right thing? Bringing them here, instead of Sacred Heart, with all the special equipment, and the best doctors?"
He thought for a moment, passing his hand over his thin hair. "I see why you're worried," he said. "But Knife is one of the best medics I ever seen, and I seen a lot in my days in the Marines. He ain't one to take chances with a brother's life, neither. If T needed more, Knife would've called it."
Sara nodded. "Okay. Good to know."
"And either of these two have any problems, he or Stick will call it," he added. "These fellas might risk their own lives, but Stick ain't gonna risk theirs when they're too sick to know about it, no matter how much trouble it brings down on the club."
Which it would, if they brought in a biker and a woman who had just left the hospital not too long ago after being beaten, both now shooting victims. The local cops and the DA would make certain hell rained down on the Devil's Flyers and all their associates.
Sara took a breath, and blew it out. Webb left the room, and she was left to watch over Manda.
"Well, Sara Cannon, you knew what you signed on for with Stick and his brothers," Sara mumbled to herself. "So now, buck up and get on with what needs to be done."
The scene in the Flyers' kitchen slash operating theater was tense, and quiet, other than Knife barking orders at Rocker, who was assisting him.
Rocker hadn't been up close to injury this bloody since he was first on scene to a bad car wreck in his days with the Spokane PD. And this was no stranger, but a big-hearted, amiable brother that he and all the others cared about.
At last, T-Bear was stitched up, bandaged and had an IV dripping into his arm, full of antibiotics and painkillers. He also had a heart rate monitor attached to his arm.
"Bout time I finally had a chance to use this shit," Knife said. "Stick bought it last summer, just been wasting space since then."
"We'll be sure and let T know when he wakes up," Pete said, looking as drawn and weary as Rocker felt. "I'm sure he'll be tickled he gave you the chance to use it."
Deciding that the cot was the best place for him for now, they carefully moved the big man into the meeting room. The shades were drawn tight shut, and the equipment Knife wanted at hand was stacked on the table near T-Bear's cot.
Pete went out to clean up the back seat of his SUV the best he could. "Gonna have to have it detailed," he said with a yawn. "But I want to get what blood I can out of there before Lesa sees it."
Streak and Cooler got busy scrubbing up the kitchen, which looked like the scene of a horror movie.
Rocker walked out to the bar to get himself a stiff drink. But on his way back, he passed his bedroom, where Sara sat watching over Manda. He stopped, frowning in consternation.
"What the hell's wrong with her?" he asked Sara. "She faint? Didn't think she cared that much about T."
Sara gave him a dark look. "She didn't faint, she was shot! And I cannot believe not one of you noticed, since she was bleeding profusely!"
"Shot?" Rocker advanced into the room, feeling as she'd slapped him across the face. "Shot where?"
"The bullet gouged her arm." Sara demonstrated the path on the back of her own upper arm, clad in thin, black knit tee. "Her jacket and shirt were soaked, as were her jeans. She went down as soon as you hauled her out of the SUV."
The hardened ex-cop stood by Manda's bed, staring down at her pale, still form, at a streak of dried blood on her chin.
Guilt roiled in his gut. On top of the other events of the night, this was the final punch that left him feeling sick to his stomach.
"Fuck. She must've been creased by the same bullet that hit T. She jumped in front of him... tried to shove him out of the way."
"Fuckin' A," said Knife from the doorway. "She did that, she likely saved our brother's life. It was only a 22, but if it'd hit him in the heart, could've still killed him."
"What's wrong with her?" Rocker demanded of the medic. "Why's she still out?"
"Shock and blood loss," Sara said. "Webb says she'll need a IV."
"Knife, set her up," Rocker said instantly. "Whatever she needs."
Knife sighed. "Number two post-op cocktail service, comin' up."
"Good," Sara said. When he was gone, she looked to Rocker. "How is T-Bear? Anything I can do for him?"
"No," Rocker said heavily. "Not right now. He'll be out for the rest of the night, anyhow."
He set his hands on his lean hips and shook his head. "What a helluva night this turned out to be."
"I know you can't share details, but just tell me one thing—did you get whoever did this to them?" she asked.
His eyes narrowed with satisfaction. "Yup. And I reckon your man should be back soon, so he can tell you a bit more." Stick would tell her exactly as much as he wanted her to know. Rocker wasn't getting in the way of that.
"You want me to sit with her for a while, so you can go home?" Rocker asked. "It's near five am. Kick and Dash will be up in a couple hours."
Sara shook her head. "I'll stay. You go and be with T."
Rocker moved to do so but cast a last look back at the woman in the bed. He wasn't clear on her future with T-Bear, but whatever happened, they all owed her a huge debt for stepping in front of a bullet meant for their brother.
Fuck him, he was not looking forward to explaining to his brother T how they'd all ignored his woman, when in fact they should've been giving her a heroine's treatment.
But he'd do it and take the lion's share of the blame because that's what a club VP did. Came with the patch. He took the honor, he accepted the responsibility.